The Complete Tommy and Tuppence

by Agatha Christie

  “Too many of them. Or too big—‘The better to eat you with, my child’—Like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”

  “You seem in a very odd sort of mood today, Tuppence.”

  “I am rather. I’ve always thought of Miss Packard as very nice—but today, somehow, she seems to me rather sinister. Have you ever felt that?”

  “No, I haven’t. Come on, let’s get on with what we came here to do—look over poor old Aunt Ada’s ‘effects,’ as the lawyers call them. That’s the desk I told you about—Uncle William’s desk. Do you like it?”

  “It’s lovely. Regency, I should think. It’s nice for the old people who come here to be able to bring some of their own things with them. I don’t care for the horsehair chairs, but I’d like that little worktable. It’s just what we need for that corner by the window where we’ve got that perfectly hideous whatnot.”

  “All right,” said Tommy. “I’ll make a note of those two.”

  “And we’ll have the picture over the mantelpiece. It’s an awfully attractive picture and I’m quite sure that I’ve seen that house somewhere. Now, let’s look at the jewellery.”

  They opened the dressing-table drawer. There was a set of cameos and a Florentine bracelet and earrings and a ring with different-coloured stones in it.

  “I’ve seen one of these before,” said Tuppence. “They spell a name usually. Dearest sometimes. Diamond, emerald, amethyst, no, it’s not dearest. I don’t think it would be really. I can’t imagine anyone giving your Aunt Ada a ring that spelt dearest. Ruby, emerald—the difficulty is one never knows where to begin. I’ll try again. Ruby, emerald, another ruby, no, I think it’s a garnet and an amethyst and another pinky stone, it must be a ruby this time and a small diamond in the middle. Oh, of course, it’s regard. Rather nice really. So old-fashioned and sentimental.”

  She slipped it on to her finger.

  “I think Deborah might like to have this,” she said, “and the Florentine set. She’s frightfully keen on Victorian things. A lot of people are nowadays. Now, I suppose we’d better do the clothes. That’s always rather macabre, I think. Oh, this is the fur stole. Quite valuable, I should think. I wouldn’t want it myself. I wonder if there’s anyone here—anyone who was especially nice to Aunt Ada—or perhaps some special friend among the other inmates—visitors, I mean. They call them visitors or guests, I notice. It would be nice to offer her the stole if so. It’s real sable. We’ll ask Miss Packard. The rest of the things can go to the charities. So that’s all settled, isn’t it? We’ll go and find Miss Packard now. Goodbye, Aunt Ada,” she remarked aloud, her eyes turning to the bed. “I’m glad we came to see you that last time. I’m sorry you didn’t like me, but if it was fun to you not to like me and say those rude things, I don’t begrudge it to you. You had to have some fun. And we won’t forget you. We’ll think of you when we look at Uncle William’s desk.”

  They went in search of Miss Packard. Tommy explained that they would arrange for the desk and the small worktable to be called for and despatched to their own address and that he would arrange with the local auctioneers to dispose of the rest of the furniture. He would leave the choice of any societies willing to receive clothing to Miss Packard if she wouldn’t mind the trouble.

  “I don’t know if there’s anyone here who would like her sable stole,” said Tuppence. “It’s a very nice one. One of her special friends, perhaps? Or perhaps one of the nurses who had done some special waiting on Aunt Ada?”

  “That is a very kind thought of yours, Mrs. Beresford. I’m afraid Miss Fanshawe hadn’t any special friends among our visitors, but Miss O’Keefe, one of the nurses, did do a lot for her and was especially good and tactful, and I think she’d be pleased and honoured to have it.”

  “And there’s the picture over the mantelpiece,” said Tuppence. “I’d like to have that—but perhaps the person whom it belonged to, and who gave it to her, would want to have it back. I think we ought to ask her—?”

  Miss Packard interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Beresford, I’m afraid we can’t do that. It was a Mrs. Lancaster who gave it to Miss Fanshawe and she isn’t with us any longer.”

  “Isn’t with you?” said Tuppence, surprised. “A Mrs. Lancaster? The one I saw last time I was here—with white hair brushed back from her face. She was drinking milk in the sitting room downstairs. She’s gone away, you say?”

  “Yes. It was all rather sudden. One of her relations, a Mrs. Johnson, took her away about a week ago. Mrs. Johnson had returned from Africa where she’s been living for the last four or five years—quite unexpectedly. She is now able to take care of Mrs. Lancaster in her own home, since she and her husband are taking a house in England. I don’t think,” said Miss Packard, “that Mrs. Lancaster really wanted to leave us. She had become so—set in her ways here, and she got on very well with everyone and was happy. She was very disturbed, quite tearful about it—but what can one do? She hadn’t really very much say in the matter, because of course the Johnsons were paying for her stay here. I did suggest that as she had been here so long and settled down so well, it might be advisable to let her remain—”

  “How long had Mrs. Lancaster been with you? asked Tuppence.

  “Oh, nearly six years, I think. Yes, that’s about it. That’s why, of course, she’d really come to feel that this was her home.”

  “Yes,” said Tuppence. “Yes, I can understand that.” She frowned and gave a nervous glance at Tommy and then stuck a resolute chin into the air.

  “I’m sorry she’s left. I had a feeling when I was talking to her that I’d met her before—her face seemed familiar to me. And then afterwards it came back to me that I’d met her with an old friend of mine, a Mrs. Blenkensop. I thought when I came back here again to visit Aunt Ada, that I’d find out from her if that was so. But of course if she’s gone back to her own people, that’s different.”

  “I quite understand, Mrs. Beresford. If any of our visitors can get in touch with some of their old friends or someone who knew their relations at one time, it makes a great difference to them. I can’t remember a Mrs. Blenkensop ever having been mentioned by her, but then I don’t suppose that would be likely to happen in any case.”

  “Can you tell me a little more about her, who her relations were, and how she came to come here?”

  “There’s really very little to tell. As I said, it was about six years ago that we had letters from Mrs. Johnson inquiring about the Home, and then Mrs. Johnson herself came here and inspected it. She said she’d had mentions of Sunny Ridge from a friend and she inquired the terms and all that and—then she went away. And about a week or a fortnight later we had a letter from a firm of solicitors in London making further inquiries, and finally they wrote saying that they would like us to accept Mrs. Lancaster and that Mrs. Johnson would bring her here in about a week’s time if we had a vacancy. As it happened, we had, and Mrs. Johnson brought Mrs. Lancaster here and Mrs. Lancaster seemed to like the place and liked the room that we proposed to allot her. Mrs. Johnson said that Mrs. Lancaster would like to bring some of her own things. I quite agreed, because people usually do that and find they’re much happier. So it was all arranged very satisfactorily. Mrs. Johnson explained that Mrs. Lancaster was a relation of her husband’s, not a very near one, but that they felt worried about her because they themselves were going out to Africa—to Nigeria I think it was, her husband was taking up an appointment there and it was likely they’d be there for some years before they returned to England, so as they had no home to offer Mrs. Lancaster, they wanted to make sure that she was accepted in a place where she would be really happy. They were quite sure from what they’d heard about this place that that was so. So it was all arranged very happily indeed and Mrs. Lancaster settled down here very well.”

  “I see.”

  “Everyone here liked Mrs. Lancaster very much. She was a little bit—well, you know what I mean—woolly in the head. I mean, she forgot things, confused things and couldn’t remember
names and addresses sometimes.”

  “Did she get many letters?” said Tuppence. “I mean letters from abroad and things?”

  “Well, I think Mrs. Johnson—or Mr. Johnson—wrote once or twice from Africa but not after the first year. People, I’m afraid, do forget, you know. Especially when they go to a new country and a different life, and I don’t think they’d been very closely in touch with her at any time. I think it was just a distant relation, and a family responsibility, and that was all it meant to them. All the financial arrangements were done through the lawyer, Mr. Eccles, a very nice, reputable firm. Actually we’d had one or two dealings with that firm before so that we new about them, as they knew about us. But I think most of Mrs. Lancaster’s friends and relations had passed over and so she didn’t hear much from anyone, and I think hardly anyone ever came to visit her. One very nice-looking man came about a year later, I think. I don’t think he knew her personally at all well but he was a friend of Mr. Johnson’s and had also been in the Colonial service overseas. I think he just came to make sure she was well and happy.”

  “And after that,” said Tuppence, “everyone forgot about her.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Miss Packard. “It’s sad, isn’t it? But it’s the usual rather than the unusual thing to happen. Fortunately, most visitors to us make their own friends here. They get friendly with someone who has their own tastes or certain memories in common, and so things settle down quite happily. I think most of them forget most of their past life.”

  “Some of them, I suppose,” said Tommy, “are a little—” he hesitated for a word “—a little—” his hand went slowly to his forehead, but he drew it away. “I don’t mean—” he said.

  “Oh, I know perfectly what you mean,” said Miss Packard. “We don’t take mental patients, you know, but we do take what you might call borderline cases. I mean, people who are rather senile—can’t look after themselves properly, or who have certain fancies and imaginations. Sometimes they imagine themselves to be historical personages. Quite in a harmless way. We’ve had two Marie Antoinettes here, one of them was always talking about something called the Petit Trianon and drinking a lot of milk which she seemed to associate with the place. And we had one dear old soul who insisted that she was Madame Curie and that she had discovered radium. She used to read the papers with great interest, especially any news of atomic bombs or scientific discoveries. Then she always explained it was she and her husband who had first started experiments on these lines. Harmless delusions are things that manage to keep you very happy when you’re elderly. They don’t usually last all the time, you know. You’re not Marie Antoinette every day or even Madame Curie. Usually it comes on about once a fortnight. Then I suppose presumably one gets tired of keeping the playacting up. And of course more often it’s just forgetfulness that people suffer from. They can’t quite remember who they are. Or they keep saying there’s something very important they’ve forgotten and if they could only remember it. That sort of thing.”

  “I see,” said Tuppence. She hesitated, and then said, “Mrs. Lancaster—Was it always things about that particular fireplace in the sitting room she remembered, or was it any fireplace?”

  Miss Packard stared—“A fireplace? I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “It was something she said that I didn’t understand—Perhaps she’d had some unpleasant association with a fireplace, or read some story that had frightened her.”

  “Possibly.”

  Tuppence said: “I’m still rather worried about the picture she gave to Aunt Ada.”

  “I really don’t think you need worry, Mrs. Beresford. I expect she’s forgotten all about it by now. I don’t think she prized it particularly. She was just pleased that Miss Fanshawe admired it and was glad for her to have it, and I’m sure she’d be glad for you to have it because you admire it. It’s a nice picture, I thought so myself. Not that I know much about pictures.”

  “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write to Mrs. Johnson if you’ll give me her address, and just ask if it’s all right to keep it.”

  “The only address I’ve got is the hotel in London they were going to—the Cleveland, I think it was called. Yes, the Cleveland Hotel, George Street, W1. She was taking Mrs. Lancaster there for about four or five days and after that I think they were going to stay with some relations in Scotland. I expect the Cleveland Hotel will have a forwarding address.”

  “Well, thank you—And now, about this fur stole of Aunt Ada’s.”

  “I’ll go and bring Miss O’Keefe to you.”

  She went out of the room.

  “You and your Mrs. Blenkensops,” said Tommy.

  Tuppence looked complacent.

  “One of my best creations,” she said. “I’m glad I was able to make use of her—I was just trying to think of a name and suddenly Mrs. Blenkensop came into my mind. What fun it was, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s a long time ago—No more spies in wartime and counter-espionage for us.”

  “More’s the pity. It was fun—living in that guest house—inventing a new personality for myself—I really began to believe I was Mrs. Blenkensop.”

  “You were lucky you got away safely with it,” said Tommy, “and in my opinion, as I once told you, you overdid it.”

  “I did not. I was perfectly in character. A nice woman, rather silly, and far too much taken up with her three sons.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Tommy. “One son would have been quite enough. Three sons were too much to burden yourself with.”

  “They became quite real to me,” said Tuppence. “Douglas, Andrew and—goodness, I’ve forgotten the name of the third one now. I know exactly what they looked like and their characters and just where they were stationed, and I talked most indiscreetly about the letters I got from them.”

  “Well, that’s over,” said Tommy. “There’s nothing to find out in this place—so forget about Mrs. Blenkensop. When I’m dead and buried and you’ve suitably mourned me and taken up your residence in a home for the aged, I expect you’ll be thinking you are Mrs. Blenkensop half of the time.”

  “It’ll be rather boring to have only one role to play,” said Tuppence.

  “Why do you think old people want to be Marie Antoinette, and Madame Curie and all the rest of it?” asked Tommy.

  “I expect because they get so bored. One does get bored. I’m sure you would if you couldn’t use your legs and walk about, or perhaps your fingers get too stiff and you can’t knit. Desperately you want something to do to amuse yourself so you try on some public character and see what it feels like when you are it. I can understand that perfectly.”

  “I’m sure you can,” said Tommy. “God help the home for the aged that you go to. You’ll be Cleopatra most of the time, I expect.”

  “I won’t be a famous person,” said Tuppence. “I’ll be someone like a kitchenmaid at Anne of Cleves’ castle retailing a lot of spicy gossip that I’d heard.”

  The door opened, and Miss Packard appeared in company with a tall, freckle-faced young woman in nurse’s dress and a mop of red hair.

  “This is Miss O’Keefe—Mr. and Mrs. Beresford. They have something to tell you. Excuse me, will you? One of the patients is asking for me.”

  Tuppence duly made the presentation of Aunt Ada’s fur stole and Nurse O’Keefe was enraptured.

  “Oh! It’s lovely. It’s too good for me, though. You’ll be wanting it yourself—”

  “No, I don’t really. It’s on the big side for me. I’m too small. It’s just right for a tall girl like you. Aunt Ada was tall.”

  “Ah! she was the grand old lady—she must have been very handsome as a girl.”

  “I suppose so,” said Tommy doubtfully. “She must have been a tartar to look after, though.”

  “Oh, she was that, indeed. But she had a grand spirit. Nothing got her down. And she was no fool either. You’d be surprised the way she got to know things. Sharp as a needle, she was.”

  “S
he had a temper, though.”

  “Yes, indeed. But it’s the whining kind that gets you down—all complaints and moans. Miss Fanshawe was never dull. Grand stories she’d tell you of the old days—Rode a horse once up the staircase of a country house when she was a girl—or so she said—Would that be true now?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Tommy.

  “You never know what you can believe here. The tales the old dears come and tell you. Criminals that they’ve recognized—We must notify the police at once—if not, we’re all in danger.”

  “Somebody was being poisoned last time we were here, I remember,” said Tuppence.

  “Ah! that was only Mrs. Lockett. It happens to her every day. But it’s not the police she wants, it’s a doctor to be called—she’s that crazy about doctors.”

  “And somebody—a little woman—calling out for cocoa—”

  “That would be Mrs. Moody. Poor soul, she’s gone.”

  “You mean left here—gone away?”

  “No—it was a thrombosis took her—very sudden. She was one who was very devoted to your Aunt—not that Miss Fanshawe always had time for her—always talking nineteen to the dozen, as she did—”

  “Mrs. Lancaster has left, I hear.”

  “Yes, her folk came for her. She didn’t want to go, poor thing.”

  “What was the story she told me—about the fireplace in the sitting room?”

  “Ah! she’d lots of stories, that one—about the things that happened to her—and the secrets she knew—”

  “There was something about a child—a kidnapped child or a murdered child—”

  “It’s strange it is, the things they think up. It’s the TV as often as not that gives them the ideas—”

  “Do you find it a strain, working here with all these old people? It must be tiring.”

  “Oh no—I like old people—That’s why I took up Geriatric work—”

  “You’ve been here long?”

  “A year and a half—” She paused. “—But I’m leaving next month.”